by Jo Graham
Moreau
The Blue Room was a pretty bedchamber at the back of the house Moreau was using for quarters. It was hung with light-blue silk and matching curtains. There was a four-poster with a cream quilt and duvet and blue brocade bolsters, a matching brocade chair, and a bench upholstered in light-blue slipper satin. A wardrobe held the few clothes from my saddlebags. A door gave onto a small, irregularly shaped dressing room with necessary pot, basin, and washing things, all made of plain white china.
It was all perfectly respectable and in good taste. I had half-expected manacles hanging from the ceiling. Or at least silk ropes twined around the posts of the bed.
Had expected or had hoped? That thought rushed to my mind unbidden. Moreau, damn him.
I drew the curtains and lit the candles. The room glowed with a soft light. I opened the wardrobe and shook out my one dress. It was sadly wrinkled. Hopefully the rest of my clothes would be here in the next day or two. The gown was rose pink, with a modest square neckline and a belted waist, the newest English style. It did look nice. I let it air out while I washed up and did my hair. Which did not take two hours.
I heard voices distantly in the house, the sounds of servants, I supposed. I was not locked in. I could have left at any moment. Instead, I prowled around the room, picking up things.
The table held two books and a pamphlet: The Indelicate Debaucheries of a Crowned Head, Being the Excesses of the Late Marie Antoinette. I flipped it open, then closed it at once. Then I opened it again. The engraving purported to show the Princess de Lamballe kneeling in front of the queen, her lips on the queen’s nether regions, while that lady flung herself backward, caressing her own upturned breast.
“So this is revolution,” I said. I doubted seriously that any woman would find that position comfortable, much less pose for an engraver. Nevertheless, it was intriguing. I had certainly never seen anything like it, not even in Italy during my remote childhood. The Dutch said that the French were depraved, and while I found it a bit hard to believe that Marie Antoinette had done anything of the kind, it said something about the audience that a printer found a ready market for things like this. A different world, I thought. Revolution has toppled every barrier. The idea was rather thrilling.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and I hastened to bury the pamphlet beneath the books on the table. “Come in.”
A sober valet stood there. “Madame St. Elme, General Moreau awaits your presence. If you will follow me?”
“Of course,” I said.
I followed him down the hall to the door on the other side of the dressing room from mine. It gave into a large room at the front of the house. The nearer part was arranged as a sitting room, while dark-red curtains framed the alcove containing the bed. There was a fire in the hearth and a table drawn up with covered dishes, a large armchair and a backless divan beside it. The floor was covered in a rich red Arabian rug. A bucket of ice held a bottle of champagne.
Moreau came forward to greet me as though we had just met after a long absence. “My dear Madame St. Elme! I am so pleased that you will share my little supper.”
The valet withdrew and shut the door.
“Won’t you sit and take some wine?” he asked, solicitously helping me to the divan.
“Thank you,” I said. I watched him open the champagne deftly and pour some for each of us.
He raised his glass. “To an interesting acquaintance, Madame.”
I touched my glass to his.
He looked at me over the table and frowned. “This will not do,” he said.
“What?”
“Your attire.”
I looked down at my dress. “I’m afraid it’s terribly wrinkled. But most of my clothes have not yet arrived.”
“It’s not a dress for a courtesan,” he said, getting up. “Not at all. That is the dress of a young and faithful wife. Which you are not.”
I flushed. “Victor . . .”
“Ah, now you call me by my name!” He smiled. “But you are not going to distract me. All my desires, as you recall?”
I nodded mutely.
“Then you will wear what I tell you.” He reached down and unhooked only the top hook on my dress, giving it just enough looseness in the bodice. Then he pulled the front straight down beneath my breasts, dress and chemise under it, down to the top of my corset.
I gasped.
He lifted each breast, stretching and pulling it over the top of the corset and crumpled dress, so they stood out pale and white. “Perfect,” he said. “Now stand up.”
I hesitated.
“Stand up.”
I did, feeling my pulse beginning too fast again.
He lifted my skirts, folding them about my waist with my petticoats. Of course I wore nothing beneath my chemise. One hand brushed against my bare hip, but he did not even look. “Sit down,” he said.
I sat down on the chaise. The satin was slick beneath my bare bottom. He tucked my dress behind me, leaving me covered only in a narrow strip from chest to hips.
“Now we will eat.” He lifted the lid on one of the dishes. “Chicken, Madame?” He resumed his seat.
To sit and eat like that, exposed and half-naked, was humiliating. To be expected to carry on normal conversation was surreal. We talked about books, and about plays that I had read, eating creamy chicken and fresh asparagus in a béarnaise sauce, drinking cold, crisp wine. And all the while, his eyes would go to my breasts, displayed there like sweets in a shop. I had never been so conscious of my body. I had never felt my private parts so keenly as when they rubbed against the upholstery each time I moved. The firelight encircled us, and the warmth from the hearth spread through me.
“Do you like champagne, Madame? I should not have to ask you twice.” His sharp tone reminded me that I had fallen into a reverie.
“Yes,” I said.
“How much do you like it?”
I shrugged. “Quite a lot.”
Victor lifted his glass. “I believe your attention is wandering, my dear. Allow me to recall it to the present.” He came around the table and leaned over me. His lips touched my bare shoulder. “Charming, I confess.”
I put my glass back on the table with a clatter.
“On your back, Madame,” he said.
I hesitated, and he turned me around longways on the divan and pushed me down so that my back was against the arm, my dress up around my waist. “Spread your legs.”
I bit my lip and did.
He pressed my knees wider open, all of my most private parts completely exposed. Looking full in my face, he opened my lips with one hand, smiling at what he felt. “You are soaking wet, my dear. Exposing yourself must agree with you.”
I moaned as he fingered my pearl, slid his fingers back and forth provocatively.
“You see,” he said, “I do not even need to tie you. I do not need to apply any threat of any kind. Your carnal nature keeps you chained more securely than steel. Nothing whatsoever prevents you from leaving this room. Except that then this would stop.” He drew his finger over my pearl again, and I tried not to cry out.
“Is this what you do?” he asked. “Alone in your room at night? When your idiot husband has gone to bed? Is this how you touch yourself?”
I closed my eyes and did not answer.
Victor laughed, a soft, dangerous sound. “You are simply begging to be corrupted. It’s very easy. Tell me that you like it.”
“Yes,” I said, though my breath caught in my throat.
He laughed again, and then I felt his lips brush my breast. I strained upward after them.
I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me. His eyes were dark with passion, but he was still in control. “Not so quickly. Tell me what you want. Don’t just thrust your nipples at me.”
I felt myself turning red. “No.”
“No?” He played with the soft tissues between my legs lazily, separating and stroking each part. “I won’t do it unless you tell me.”
; “I want . . . you to kiss me . . . there. . . .” I said.
“Where?”
“My breast,” I gasped.
He smiled. “Very good.” He leaned down and took my nipple in his mouth, teasing at it with his tongue, drawing it almost painfully.
I moaned and my back arched involuntarily, my pearl against his hand.
I felt him laugh against my breast. And I felt his hardness against my leg. I was scoring points too. Sooner or later he must take what he wanted. Could I make him? Could I make him lose this infuriating control?
One finger penetrated me, and I almost forgot the thought. My hand clawed at his cravat, at his throat, but he stopped me, taking my wrist with his other hand and shifting his weight to kneel between my knees.
“Not so fast,” Victor said. “You will do what I want. And what I want is to hear you beg for release.”
I gasped. “I can’t. I’ll never . . .”
“Never is a very long time. Do you really think you won’t if I keep this up? Do you really think that in an hour or however long it takes, you won’t come begging like a whore, getting off in full view of me?”
His words were a spur, and I ground against him. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything.
“You’re going to come for me, my dear. And you’re going to ask for it.”
I moaned.
He moved his fingers away. “Ask me for it.”
“Victor . . .”
“Ask me for it.”
I pumped my hips, trying to get his hand back where it had been. “Please.”
“Ask me to let you come.” His hand on my wrist was steel.
“Let me come,” I whispered. “Victor, please!”
He thrust his hand down, rubbing where I wanted it most. “Say, ‘I am a whore. I am a whore and I want you to make me come.’”
“I am a whore and I want you to make me come.” The pressure was almost unbearable. I felt suspended, timeless. I was nothing but a knot of craving.
“I am not going to stop until you do,” he said calmly. “You need not worry that you will be unsatisfied. I am going to watch you squirm and writhe with my fingers inside you until you finish.”
I screamed and came against his hand. Lights flashed and my head swam, my entire being locked in a convulsion that seemed to come from somewhere deep within. I lay back against the arm of the divan. I could hardly see.
And then he thrust into me, into tissues already overstimulated. My back arched and I almost fell, falling, falling out of the world, sealed together, my body moving against him.
He came hard and lay across me, discipline pushed to the limit. His soft dark hair was against my face, his forehead covered in sweat, our bodies still joined.
I took one breath and then another. And then another.
He stirred, and for a moment his eyes were half-veiled.
“My God,” I said.
He smiled, and it was the same mocking poise again. “I doubt if God has anything to do with it.” He got up carefully. Despite his best efforts, his clothes were in some disarray.
I tried to sit up. My back hurt from the uncomfortable position, and my body felt more than sensitive. I moaned involuntarily as my swollen nether lips touched the divan.
Victor looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “That was quite something.”
“Yes,” I said.
He leaned over me again, parting my legs and touching the tender skin that had just brushed the cloth. I leaned back against his arm.
“Again,” he said, and his hand moved on me.
I awoke the next morning in the Blue Room. I stretched luxuriously on the heavy linen sheets. I was stiff and sore, but completely, utterly relaxed. I turned my head. Light came in under the curtains, enough to tell me it was full daylight. The fire was dead and the room was a little chilly, but not cold. Or perhaps it was just that I was naked.
There was a knock. I sat up, pulling the sheet and duvet up over my breasts. “Yes?”
A young chambermaid carrying a bucket of water bobbed a curtsy in the doorway. “Madame, the general thought that you might like a bath.”
“Come in,” I said. “I would like one very much.” The prospect was absolutely delightful. Even more delightful was the idea that he had thought of it, that he had considered my comfort. I looked for my hairpins. I heard the splashing as she poured the water into the tub in the dressing room. “Is the general still here?”
She came out with the empty bucket. “No, Madame. He said that he has a great deal of work to do today. But he told us that we are to do anything you request, and he left a purse with Marcel if you wish to go to the shops today, since your clothes haven’t arrived yet.”
A nice sensibility, I thought, to leave the purse with the valet for shopping, rather than handing it to me as though it were my price. But I really did want some clothes, at least a clean chemise. My trunks might take three or four days yet. And besides, as he had said, many of my clothes were rather modest.
While the chambermaid finished filling the bath, I looked around the dressing room again. There was plain soap, but no scented soap or oils. For some reason, this pleased me enormously. If women stayed here, it was not often enough to leave their things. Or else Moreau had fastidiously removed them.
“Is there anything else you would like, Madame?” she asked.
“In three-quarters of an hour, I would like coffee with cream, with bread and butter and jam,” I said. “I will take it in here. Also, please brush and hang my dress.”
She nodded. “Of course, Madame.”
I settled into the warm water gratefully as she left. I did not love him. I wasn’t sure if I even liked him. Yet twice this morning he had thought of my comfort and of my feelings. That was a truly novel experience.
He had certainly seemed attuned to my feelings last night, I thought, dreamily splashing myself with water, as though my excitement were the spur to his passion. In my admittedly limited previous experience, men scarcely required that. The mere sight of a breast or a thigh was enough to transport them. My active participation was hardly required. And yet Moreau had gone to vast pains to make me want him.
I didn’t know if I liked him, but I certainly desired him. I could admit that to myself.
I had perhaps exaggerated his age to my cousin Maria. He was closer to thirty-five than forty, and if he was not extravagantly handsome, he was certainly good-looking. If he was not tall, he was certainly well made, with the lean body of a man who spent his days in great activity and was abstemious with both wine and food.
Discipline, I thought. He is about discipline and mastery over himself. That is the key to Moreau. And so perhaps what he craves is its opposite humor, utter abandonment? Is that what completes him?
I stretched back in the water. Perhaps I would not mind that at all under his cool tutelage.
A New Life
Thus I entered into a period of my life that I liked far better than I had expected. I lived in the house in utter respectability, directing the servants as though I were the lady of the house and doing as I wished. As soon as he learned that I was not a spendthrift, Moreau had no qualms about turning over the running of the household to me, and I was meticulous about keeping his books separate from mine, and his money separate from the money that he gave me. He inspected his own books regularly, and was as thorough and conscientious in that as in everything. My bookkeeping earned a nod of approval, as it never had from Jan.
“I see that you know something of finance, Madame,” he said.
“It’s common sense,” I replied. “And good taste.”
“You do have good taste,” he said.
While my taste in gowns was somewhat expensive, it was undeniably good, and if I wore things that previously I would have found too revealing for Madame Ringeling, they were not too revealing for Madame St. Elme.
I cultivated her as I had Charles, considering character and taste. Ida St. Elme did not wear pale pinks and yellows. She wor
e blue in every shade, from palest dawn to dark sapphire that brought out the color of her eyes. Her new evening gown was of dark blue-purple satin that plunged deeply in the front, with a high-boned corset that made the most of those attributes Moreau appreciated. Her riding clothes were almost navy, a man’s coat and buff trousers with a little tricorne with a rakish plume. And her nightclothes . . . Madame St. Elme did not usually wear nightclothes, with the exception of a wrapper of blue and white toile.
There was one very delicate chemise, of the thinnest, lightest lawn with fine lace, the sort of chemise that brides wore. I wore it ripped and torn, one long rent up the side and the lace dangling at the throat, little pink ribbons shredded and trailing. It was the very picture of innocence outraged. When he saw it, Moreau swallowed hard, and a look came over his face that I had waited for.
I wore it pleading at his feet, lavishing him with tears that were half real, begging and sobbing in two languages. And of course he did not fail me.
Afterward, for once we lay quiet together. The candles had burned out. His breathing was even and he had forgotten to send me back to my room. I closed my eyes and was almost asleep when I felt his arm around me.
“My dear,” he said quietly. “That was too real.”
I licked my swollen lips. “It was,” I said. “Too close.” There was a long silence. “I was that sort of bride once.”
His hand stroked my hair softly and methodically. “So I had guessed. How old were you?”
“Twelve,” I said. It was very quiet in the room. Outside, the town and camp were quiet. Far off, a dog barked. “I had a large dowry. Jan talked me into eloping with him, into running away to an inn over the border.” Victor’s hands were not still, moving softly against my hair. “You can guess what happened then. After that, I had to marry him, even though I no longer wanted to.”
“And so you had that costume made up? Not to please me.”
“No,” I said. I thought about it. For some reason, thinking was easier around him. If my passion was a spark to his, his thoughts were a spark to mine. “To change the past. To make it as it should have been. If I had married someone . . . different.”